Swan's Way

by Weyrich, Becky Lee

  Once they were in the parlor with the door almost closed, Virginia forgot about her need to hear what he had to say. When he took her into his arms this time, she was much more interested in being kissed—over and over and over again. By the time Channing finished with her, she felt flushed to her toes. She ached for him so that all sorts of lovely, wicked thoughts came to mind. She decided she wouldn’t object at all if Channing placed her on the narrow gilt-trimmed couch and tossed her skirts right over her head.

  “I know that look,” he teased. “You’re thinking naughty thoughts, Virginia Swan.”

  She laughed behind her hand. “It’s all right, Channing darling. They’re all about you.”

  He drew her close again. “Tell me,” he whispered, letting his hand graze her tight, heaven-blue bodice.

  She shivered against him. “Oh, I couldn’t! Not now.”

  “Will you tell me on our wedding night?”

  He pulled her closer against his hard, hot body. She almost moaned aloud. She had waited so long to feel his nearness again.

  “On our wedding night it won’t matter. We’ll have a big feather bed to share.”

  Without thinking, she glanced at the couch. Channing caught the look.

  “Virginia! I’m surprised at you!” He kissed the blush on her cheeks, then whispered, “Besides, it would never work. That little old antique is far too fragile. We’d smash the poor thing to smithereens. We’d best wait for that feather bed on our wedding night.”

  “I know,” she said in a serious tone. Then she looked up, drowning in the dark pools of his eyes. “But it’s hard, Channing. We’ve waited so long. I love you. I need you.”

  Her words brought a lump to his throat and a bulge to his crotch. For a time, he couldn’t answer. He simply held her, kissing her face, tracing the lace on her bodice with aching fingers.

  Suddenly, he pulled back, his mind screaming a warning for him to stop before it was too late. Virginia seemed to share his reasoning, as well as his need. She stepped away, out of arm’s reach.

  “You must be thirsty after your long ride. I’m sure Father would offer you a drink if he were here.”

  Without waiting for Channing to answer, she went to the spirits chest and poured him a bourbon, then added water from a crystal pitcher. They settled on the fragile couch, but kept a safe distance between them.

  “Now!” Viginia said. ‘Tell me everything, darlin’.”

  Channing quickly filled her in on all that had happened since Rodney’s departure from West Point—the leave-taking of so many others, the quiet commencement ceremonies with so few graduates and even fewer guests, his long trip home.

  “I wish I could have been there,” she said, when he paused to take a sip of his drink. “Oh, Channing, I so wanted to see you graduate and receive your commission.”

  Only then did she notice that he wasn’t in uniform. The clothes he was wearing must be the ones he had worn when he left for the Academy over four years ago, she reasoned. The trousers were too short, the shirt and coat too tight.

  “Channing, why are you in civilian clothes? You are a lieutenant now, aren’t you?”

  “Second,” he emphasized. “A second lieutenant, darling. There’s a difference.”

  A slow, knowing smile warmed her face. Of course! Channing would hardly wear the uniform of the United States Army, if he had come home to join her father’s Confederate cavalry. And if that were the case, she could stop fretting. She would certainly worry, once he rode off to fight, but at least she wouldn’t have to concern herself with a more immediate battle within her own family. She reached over and took his hand, then smiled into his eyes. She was about to tell him how relieved she was that he had changed his mind. He spoke first, however.

  “Virginia, I have to talk to you, while we have some privacy. I had meant to give you your ring the moment I arrived, but I think you had better hear me out, first.”

  She nodded, all traces of her smile vanished. A thundering ache in her heart warned her that this was not going to be what she had hoped to hear.

  “I think you know my feelings about this war, darlin’. I am against it with all my heart and soul. As much as I love you—that’s how much I hate the thought of our country splitting apart. Because I feel this way, I have an obligation to do everything in my power to keep that from happening.”

  Virginia found her voice, as uncertain as it was. “Then you won’t be riding with my father and brothers.” It was not a question. She already knew the answer.

  Channing looked away, out through the front windows, toward the swan pond. “I can’t. This country, this very state, is the home of Washington, Madison, Jefferson.”

  “And the home of Robert E. Lee.” She was sorry she had said that when she saw the wounded expression in Channing’s eyes.

  “Every man must answer to his own conscience. I would never know another minute free from guilt if I took up arms against my own country. Can you understand, Virginia?”

  She nodded, blinking back tears. “May I have my ring now?”

  “You still love me, after what I’ve just said?”

  “With all my heart.” She held her left hand toward him. “My ring?”

  Channing took her hand and showered it with kisses. Then he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a soft velvet bag. In the rays of the afternoon sun, the opal burned with lustrous fire and the diamonds shot sparks about the room. Slowly, lovingly, Channing placed it on her finger.

  “It’s even more beautiful than I remembered.”

  Channing drew her into his arms. “So are you, my dearest So are you.”

  When he kissed her this time, it was with a new depth of feeling. There was a bonding in their kiss. It seemed to make them one, from this moment on. Virginia realized she was weeping silent tears. Channing’s eyes, too, were brimming. This was what life was all about—finding the one person who could complete the picture, and loving that person forevermore.

  “Damn secession and hate and war!” Channing said, in a low growl. Then his voice softened, as he looked at his fiancée and said, “It will be all right darlin’. You’ll see. This war won’t last three months. By Christmas, it will be only an unhappy memory. Maybe this is God’s way of making us appreciate what we have. Who knows? But whatever happens, I’ll always love you. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “How could I, Channing? How could I, when I love you so desperately?”

  For a long time, they clung to each other in silence, both pondering troubled thoughts about the future.

  Finally, Virginia spoke hesitantly. “Channing? How will you tell the others? When will you tell them?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. It’s going to be hard, no matter how or when they hear the news.”

  “Wait till after the wedding, after our first night together.”

  When Virginia looked at Channing, she knew that wasn’t his plan. A new fear crept into her heart. Channing McNeal, who had always been a part of her life and almost part of the Swan family, was now the enemy. A damnyankee! A blue-belly! And, worse than that, a turncoat Virginian. Her brothers, who had always been his best friends, would now feel nothing for him but contempt and scorn. Her father might even forbid their marriage.

  “Channing, you mustn’t tell them before we’re married!” She clung to him, sobbing.

  “We belong to each other, no matter what happens, Virginia.” He spoke quietly, trying to soothe her, but she could feel his heart thundering against hers. “Don’t ever forget that, darlin’. I love you, and that will never change.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nothing was yet resolved when Channing left Virginia. He had imagined that the day he slipped the engagement ring on her finger would be one of the happiest of their lives. Instead, it had proved a sad event. His heart heavy, he rode the short distance to Belle Grove. Always before, his homecomings had been joyous occasions. His parents and sister
s had been waiting a long time to see him. He had not been home since the Christmas holidays. Yet he dreaded this reunion.

  As his horse plodded along, in no hurry, since neither was its rider, Channing thought back to those happy days of his last visit home—parties and balls and the traditional Christmas Eve bonfire. Then New Year’s Day, when he had made the rounds to pay calls on all his friends. He had saved the best stop for last, eager to savor his time at Swan’s Quarter with Virginia and her family.

  Together, Channing and Virginia had decided that the first day of the New Year was the perfect time to declare their intentions to their families. Melora Swan had long suspected what was coming. Jedediah Swan had long hoped. Their announcement had been greeted with enthusiasm and joy. Mrs. Swan had wept happily, as she embraced the man who would be her son-in-law. As for Colonel Swan, instead of the stern talk usually delivered by the fathers of young women, reserved for their young men, Jedediah had shown Channing into the library, closed the door, then bellowed delightedly, “By damn, son, I couldn’t be more pleased. I’ve hoped from the moment my Virginia was born that someday the two of you would tie the knot. With you siring them, I can count on fine, strong grandsons—at least a dozen, I vow. Join me in a toast to that happy thought, won’t you?”

  Channing almost smiled at the memory of that glorious day, over five months ago. But even the ghost of a smile vanished when he thought about what lay ahead. He had grave doubts that Colonel Swan would offer him a drink when he heard this latest news. More likely, Virginia’s father would dash a pony of bourbon into her fiancé’s face. But surely Jedediah Swan would not demand that the wedding be canceled. Not that! It would be too extreme, even for these extreme circumstances.

  The worry lingered, gnawing at his heart and his gut. Channing brightened a bit, as he turned into the wide, tree-lined lane that led to Belle Grove. The thought of coming home never failed to gladden his heart. The place held so many happy memories of his childhood. Every creek brought to mind long, lazy summer afternoons of dangling a worm at the end of his pole, while he lay in the tall, sweet grass drowsing under drifting puffs of cloud. Every tree recalled to mind a secret haunt, a hideout where he and the Swan brothers had planned mock battles to be fought in the peach orchard or among the tall rows of corn. How could he have known back then, in those sunny, carefree days of his youth, that eventually the battles would be all too real? There seemed no way to escape that pain.

  Thoughts of the letter from his father brought a deeper concern to Channing. Thompson McNeal clearly expected his son to ride off to war with the men of Swan’s Quarter. Before Channing told another soul of his plans, he owed it to his father to explain his decision. He was the one person Channing had always been able to confide in. Thompson McNeal was a level headed, straight-talking Scotsman. He had given his only son good advice all his life. Now, as never before, Channing needed the opinion of someone older and wiser, someone he could trust.

  Instead of dismounting and going into the house, where he guessed his mother and sisters would be waiting with open arms, happy tears, and a fresh-baked apple pie, Channing turned his horse toward the tobacco fields. This time of day, he knew that was where he would find his father.

  Sure enough, Channing spied the battered old straw planter’s hat bobbing mid-field in the distance. As he drew nearer, the erect form of his solid Scottish father came into clear view. Channing noted with pride that the old man still sat his mount as though he and the animal were one.

  “Hallo!” Channing hailed, rising in the saddle to wave.

  McNeal turned to see who was calling. When he spied his son, the Scotsman’s leathery tanned face broke in a broad grin.

  “So, you’ve come home at last, lad. Your mother’s no doubt taken to her bed by now with a wine-soaked cloth over her eyes from all the excitement.”

  Channing and his father met at the edge of the field and dismounted. They first shook hands, then exchanged an awkward, rough embrace, as men will.

  “I’ve seen neither Mother nor the girls yet, Father. I needed a word with you first.”

  Quick to note the somber tone in his son’s voice, McNeal said, “There’s a problem then, is there?”

  Channing nodded. “I’m afraid so. One that may have no solution.”

  Thompson clucked his tongue. “‘He has a sliddery grip that has an eel by the tail.’”

  An unbidden smile stole over Channing’s face. His father had an old Scottish proverb to suit every occasion. And this situation, he had to admit, was a sliddery one, indeed.

  “So? Out with it, lad. Why the lang face?”

  Channing made a loose fist of his right hand and held up his Academy ring for his father’s inspection. “This band of gold and the four long years at the Point that it represents.”

  McNeal stared at his son’s West Point ring and nodded. “’Tis a fine symbol of your accomplishments, Channing my boy. ’Tis also, I’m guessing, a constant reminder of what the Military Academy stands for in your mind and heart. I can see your dilemma.”

  “Not the half of it, Poppa.” In his emotional state, Channing reverted to his childhood name for his father. “I received your letter upon commencement day. I accepted your congratulations gladly, but some of your statements left me in a quandary. I have obeyed you as best I could all my life. For the first time, I may have to disappoint you.”

  McNeal rubbed at the bristle of whiskers on his chin. “I cannot think of a way in which you could do that, son. You’ll have to tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “This talk of war.”

  “’Tis more than talk, I’m bound.”

  “Then I must tell you of my decision—difficult as it is—right now. You won’t be pleased, Father, but a man must make his own choices.”

  A long, silence followed before McNeal said, “’Twould seem a simple choice, son. North or South? Your country or your state?”

  “You’ve guessed my problem.” Channing stared at his father, wondering if he had been born with a caul to give him second sight.

  “What else could you be deciding at such a time as this? You’re not the only one hereabouts who finds himself faced with that choice. I can’t say I’m surprised, son. Either way, I’ll be proud that you bear my name.”

  “I thank you for your understanding, Father.” Channing shook his head sadly. “But there’s much more at stake here, I’m afraid, than with which side I’ll cast my lot in the coming conflict.”

  “Then spit it out, lad. Nothing was ever decided by chasing the problem to Glasgow and back.”

  “It’s Virginia, Father. I want to marry her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I will marry her!”

  “Aye,” McNeal nodded, agreeably. “He drives a good wagon load into his farm that gets a good wife, and there’d be none better for you than Miss Virginia Swan. You’ve no need to waste your time convincing me of that. Her folks feel the same toward you, I vow.”

  “They felt the same toward me. But now . . .”

  Thompson McNeal’s bushy eyebrows drew down like a snow-frosted hedgerow above his hawkish nose. “The Colonel’s withdrawn his permission, then?”

  “Not yet. He doesn’t know of my plans.”

  “And what exactly are your plans, Channing? Are you bound and determined to cast your allegiance with the Union, even at the cost of losing the woman you love?”

  Channing replied quietly, but firmly. “I won’t lose her, but this country has been good to us, Father. Many’s the time you’ve told me about your poor childhood back in Scotland.”

  McNeal sighed, a touch of moisture coming to his bright eyes at the mention of his Mother Country. “‘A guid tale’s nane the waur o’ bein’ twice tauld.”’

  “I’ve heard that good tale more than twice, Father. The crowded, thatched-roof cottage, where you and all your brothers and sisters were raised, where most of them died from the fever or starvation before they were near-grown. Your dear,
long-suffering mother, working from dark to dark. Your own father, drifting from town to town in search of honest work. And then you came here, working for your passage across the Atlantic, hiring yourself out to other landowners, until you could save enough to buy a few acres and a few more.” Channing stood tall and spread his arms to encompass Belle Grove’s wide expanse. “And finally, all this, all yours! What other country in the world could have offered a penniless lad from Scotland such good fortune?”

  The elder McNeal pulled off his straw hat and wiped his balding head with his linen handkerchief. “’Tis more than the strain of my back and the sweat of my brow that’s brought us this good fortune, Chan. ’Tis the sweet, good earth of Virginia—our land, our home, our treasure. We’ll not take kindly to invasion of our homeland, not we Virginians.”

  Channing shied away from the staunch glitter of his father’s eyes. “Then, you’re saying my choice is wrong?”

  “Dammit, lad!” McNeal exploded. “There is no right nor wrong to this! That’s the hell of it all. When the final shot is fired and the final battle is done and the final man has breathed his last, then and only then will we know who was right and who was wrong. The victor will shout ‘Huzzah!’ while the vanquished falls to his knees. And after the shouting is over, we will all be the worse for what’s happened. Mark my word, neither the state of Virginia nor the United States of America will ever be the same again. These are our final days of glory.”

  “You paint a grim picture, Father.”

  “Not near as grim as the war will be, son.” McNeal clamped a hand on Channing’s shoulder and bowed his head. “There’s nothing so grim as that.”

  “Then there is no answer. Why fight for a lost cause?”

  When Thompson McNeal looked up at his tall, fine son, his eyes were blazing. “Aye, you’ll fight, lad. I’ve no doubt of that. But not till your back’s to the wall. There’s an old Scottish saying, ‘The Scot will not fight till he sees his ain bluid.’ And I do believe that we’ll be seeing our own blood flow over this comely land in the first hours of battle. We are too close to Washington City to go ignored. They will want Virginia worse than a seaman fresh off a three-year voyage craves a woman beneath him.”